Culture Shock
by Skandranon
Summary: Squall and Irvine accept a mission to uncover rebel plots linked to bombings, and tour much of scenic Galbadia along the way.
1. Ch 1 : It Begins

"Culture Shock"

by Skandranon

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Genre : Final Fantasy VIII

Rating : (PG13)

Warnings : yaoi, some cussing, may contain grotesque violence and crudity

Pairing : Irvine/Squall

Summary : An injured and ornery Squall takes on a mission to uncover a rebel plot in Galbadia, with Irvine at his side.

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Chapter 1 : "It Begins"

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The thing about the doors in Balamb Garden was that they were not meant to be opened by pushing against them. They were supposed to slide electronically when you pressed a button or waved your hand in front of a sensory panel. So it couldn't have been good for the door to Quistis' office to be wrenched open by Squall this way, and it protested the punishment with a pathetic whine of metal, before it was flung into the far wall and, on its way there, a lamp, a couch, a potted plant, and thirty two separate pieces of important tax documentation. Or at least they claimed to be important, but there's not a tax document that doesn't. Accountants had made fortunes in choosing wordings that would impart the maximum amount of gravity to things as dull as sales tax.

Squall stood in the rain of paperwork, panting lightly to catch his breath, and turned to gesture at Dr Kadowaki, who was trailing after him. "There, see? I'm healthy enough. You want more proof, get me a jeep to bench press."

"Yes, Bahamut is perfectly healthy," she retorted, unimpressed, and tried to catch him unawares with a syringe of sedative, but he moved away too quickly. "You, however, had a building dropped on you, and need to recuperate."

"It was a small building. Quis, tell her."

Spinning her headmaster's chair towards the computer, Quistis typed out a quick letter to the resident electrician asking that he fix her door at his earliest convenience. Then she made an apologetic face to the military general she had been interviewing at that very moment. Then she retrieved her favorite chotchky from off her desk and stored it in a drawer where a certain rampaging gunblader might not destroy it with one of his sullen moodswings. Then she removed an air conditioning bill from her hair. "You're on medical leave for two weeks, Squall," she finally replied, now that her temper had cooled.

"Like hell I'm wallowing in a bed more than a day. Who's this?" Squall eyed the man in Quistis' office warily. He had a Galbadian uniform on. Squall hated him already.

"This is General Seaki, and you're covered in bandages. You're practically a mummy, Squall, look at you."

He glanced down at the... swathes was the only word for it, really. Swathes of bandages, chest to knees, and few clothes besides. Add in the bruises and pale, exhausted face he'd seen in the mirror that morning, and he could understand why people were pushing him towards the nearest bed. He could still feel his ribs stinging where broken bones had been mended by quick magic, and his head swum from the blow he'd taken to the temple. The giddiness he was feeling was probably a concussion. He didn't care, though. "Blame her," he gestured at the Doctor that still circled him. "She's got a fetish for wrapping people up. I want back in the field. Seaki as in General Seaki of the Galbadian military?" Growling, he stared down the elderly officer, who seemed unconcerned by all the sudden activity. Maybe he could prove his wellness on the man's hide.

Kadowaki put a hand on her mighty hip. "Little boy, if you don't get back to the 'firmary before I drag you back there, I'll have your records say you're allergic to potions, and you can convalesce the painful way."

Squall ignored her, and dodged the resulting needle attack. His attention was on the general, who had stood to face him. They briefly tested each other's stares. "What's Seaki doing here?" Now that he looked properly, he recognized the guy. Grey hair, square head, square beard, squinty eyes. Right, he know those eyes. They'd been on the opposite side of a few battles. The battles that had ended up worse for him, he remembered grimly.

Quistis seemed like she would continue to argue, but then resignation crossed her face, and she removed her glasses to rub her nose. "He's here to hire us for a mission, actually. Cue the melodramatics." She leaned back expectantly.

Instead of arguing, Squall lunged forward and snatched the mission paperwork from the general's hands. The man was clearly expecting a different lunge, and so his block was unmet, and he had to recover awkwardly. "I'll take it," Squall grunted, examining the details. "Resistance faction, huh?"

Standing to come around the desk, Quistis meaningfully patted her whip that hung ever by her side, her eyes firm and steely. She'd dealt with his violent tantrums before. "You are on bedrest and you'll like it, Commander. Don't make me explain why."

Squall shot her a glower, and gripped the papers to him fervently. "I need to get out of here Quis, I'm taking the mission."

"Don't make me and the entire security force and a _filing cabinet_ explain why."

He fought down the urge to grab her shoulders and shake until approval fell out. Instead he closed the distance so he could mutter without the others hearing. "Quis, seriously." He let his eyes show a little of the claustrophobia that was climbing his inner walls, driving him towards flight instinct. From her face he knew he'd pulled the right string. "No way I'm staying here. It's too quiet. Give me a mission, any mission, put me in the field where I can just concentrate on fighting."

Hesitantly, Quistis looked past him to Kadowaki for support. "You just got off a mission, and you had over a dozen broken bones..."

"Which are healed. Yay magics. Put me in the field." He snapped his fingers at Seaki. "You, mission stats, come on."

Seaki looked nonplussed.

"Come on, rebel group in Galbadia. With the..." he glanced at the papers. "...possible bombings. Linked to the Ellnoy unrest. Give me the goods. Lots of people to kill, right? Lemme at 'em. I'm good at killing lots of people, you know that. Remember Timber?"

"Vividly," Seaki groused.

Clicking her tongue in frustration, Quistis pointed at the Doctor. "Eliza, fetch the tranquilizer gun."

"Actually..."

They all turned to look at Kadowaki, pulled by the strange note in her voice. She seemed pensive, but then grinned wryly and shrugged her shoulders. "As much as I hate to admit it, I don't look forward to putting up with a bedridden Squall for the next few weeks. We all know how that will turn out." Squall snorted, but didn't deny it. "And if the mission is just investigative, it won't mess up his healing, though it'll take much longer of course."

Quistis nearly sputtered, but composed herself quickly. "You mean you're actually giving him the greenlight for this?"

"Chaperoned, of course. We can't trust him to look after his own health." The hand returned to the mighty hip.

The Headmistress turned to the General. "And you would be alright with this?" she asked warily.

After a brief hesitation, the man nodded. "Though we haven't gotten along in the past, I can't deny the Commander's abilities, nor that he'd be well suited to this particular mission. And I'm sure he'll perform well. He's very... eager." His voice rumbled, and Squall had to tamp down on some anger as he remembered that rumble shouting orders to kill him. But it was offering him an outlet now, so he just plastered on a smile. Or his version of one, at least.

Quistis was silent for a long moment, chewing her lip violently, then she tossed her hands in the air. "I'm outvoted. Go do your thing."

Viciously relieved, Squall grabbed a spare chair and dropped into it, firmly keeping off his face the wince that came with that action. He wasn't going to give her any ideas of changing her mind. "So, scoop. Rebel group. Move it people, let's do this."

Slowly the rest of the group chose their seats, and he had the feeling Quistis took hers slow just to torment him. But he didn't care, he had something to focus on now. Something to do, instead if just sit in a bed for weeks with nothing but his thoughts for company. He couldn't stand his own head on a good day, and the last week, the last mission... not made up of good days. Made up of very not good, not fun days, too much bleeding and screaming and -

"Why is it called Ellnoy, anyway?" he wondered, trying to distract himself. "Named after the monster or what? Stupid name."

"...It's named after one of the founders of the town, I believe," Seaki rumbled. "I think the similarity's a coincidence. Back to the point, I'm hiring SeeD to investigate this rebel group linked with several bombings, to wrestle out their intentions, their leaders, and hopefully either perform some arrests or eliminate the problem." There was no hesitation or change of tone before the last bit, as if to shield the speaker emotionally from his own implications. Seaki wasn't that kind of guy.

"Galbadia's forces can't handle this themselves, huh?" Squall asked scornfully.

"You'll be working with the local police force, but I'd prefer if this was handled outside of the official books. There's too much underground support for a political coup these days, it could get messy. And it's an election year." He didn't hide his humor for the last sentence. Everyone knew Galbadian elections were rigged. Political corruption was nearly a national sport. "Besides, we think there may be rebel moles inside of the police and military, so there's no knowing who can be trusted to handle this. But we can all trust Commander Leonhart of Balamb, can't we?" He smirked. "You're well known for despising all Galbadians equally, so I feel confidant you won't take sides."

Squall scowled. "Lies, I do hate some more than others." He glared pointedly.

Seaki met his gaze evenly. "I suppose it depends on whether their weapons are aimed at you. Well, the police's won't be, but the rebels surely will, if they know you're on the hunt. So I'll take comfort in that, and let you do the rest." He was trying to spear a look of mutual respect into the Commander's hide. Squall wasn't having any of it. "I've opposed you often enough to know you get the job done no matter what, so I'll leave this in your capable... bleeding hands."

Glancing down, Squall realized ruefully that he was dripping on the mission paperwork. "I'm going to need another copy of this."

A hint of doubt showed on Seaki's expression. "You said chaperoned, right?"

"I have someone in mind," Kadowaki replied.

* * *

Ellnoy was a dirty city, probably the smoggiest, grimiest in Galbadia. You couldn't see the sun at midday for all the grey haze. Loud, too, with the poorly maintained trains grinding and screeching, and factories pounding and puffing out smoke, the traffic jams blaring. The city had grown too large too fast, packing in the population without room to expand. And the natives just made things worse. They were so used to shouting and fighting to be heard that now everything was done at full volume. Street bands and music blaring from night-and-day clubs nearly drowned out the traffic. It was strange music too, that Squall couldn't get his head around. As if country folksy music had been attempted by a demolition crew. The trains were more melodic, he thought.

The Pontsy district police station was crammed up between a cheap hair salon with a flickering neon sign, and a 24 hour pizza joint. Across the street was an impound lot with barbed wire and guard dogs. The whole thing was under an overpass, with the trains roaring by. It was by no means the ritzy part of town.

He shook himself to pop his ears as he stepped out of the taxi. He'd been louder places, but they'd been in the middle of civil wars.

He trudged up the narrow, crumbling steps to the station, stretching his healing back and enjoying the tingling burn of fading magics. Doc and Quistis had refused to let him undertake this without at least buffing him up to something resembling health, and had pumped enough healing into him to keep even a dead chocobo in the race until the final lap. He only had a few bandages left, cradling his chest, and the rest was aching red welts that would fade with time provided he didn't test their limits. Not that he intended to rest, mind you. There were bad guys about, and some of them were cops.

He grabbed the first person he met inside and raised bloody hell, and damn it felt good. Soon he was pleasantly throttling anyone who refused to show him to their captain, and blithely ignoring the more suicidal few that were trying to arrest him. Seaki surely had hoped for him to handle things more diplomatically, but he felt it best to play to his abilities, and make it clear from the beginning that he wouldn't be pushed around. Plus he needed the exercise.

It ended with him in an interrogation room holding a seargeant's face to the table while the captain carefully explained that they hadn't been informed he was coming. He was asking ever so nicely why the hell they hadn't known, and they had better trace the drop in communication and fry whoever fumbled it, when Irvine showed up.

The cowboy's necklace were missing, was the first thing Squall noticed. His hair was untied and askew, hastilly shoved under his hat, and his satin shirt was almost all wrinkles. Seems he'd dressed in a hurry, and now he was trying to shoulder past some policemen to get to his Commander, waving his SeeD badge and soothing feathers with an incessant string of complacencies.

"-just in there, I can find it myself, I'm sure everything'll be explained soon as we get this sorted out... Squall, hey, there you are. Sorry I'm late, had to commandeer a shuttle. Captain Renolle, pleased to meet you sir. Glad to be working with you, and could you bring us the reports on the bombings last month, thanks so much. And Seargeant..." he bent down to check the nametag on Squall's victim. "...Kidmen, good lad, appreciate the cooperation. Why don't you nip along, get us some coffees, it's gonna be a long day. Let the fella up wouldja, Squall, he's got work to do."

Squall knew the 'handle the Commander's fallout' tactic when he saw it, and grudgingly let go of Kidmen's neck, and watched the poor cop speed off. Probably wouldn't bring any coffee back, he grumbled mentally.

"Kinneas," he greeted.

Irvine flashed him one of his wide grins, face all teeth. "Got started without me? You look like hell."

Squall snorted. "So do you."

"Ah, sorry about that." Irvine tried to smooth his hair down, but didn't look too embarrassed about it. "Heiress, redhead. Was playing babysitter for her over in Monday Beach on a bodyguard contract. Think she had a thing for me. Stole my laundry and tried to force me into a banana hammock. She was also a bit... handsy with her staff, if you get my drift." And if you didn't get his drift, his lazy smirk said it all.

"Was a bit handsy with _your_ staff, you mean," Squall retorted, gruffly accepting the coffee offered to him by a trembling Kidmen, who immediately fled again. "Selphie doesn't have a problem with that, or does she not know?"

Irvine's face froze in a strange expression for a moment, then shifted smoothly into abashed guilt. "Yeah, Selphie, right. No, she doesn't know, and nothing happened with the heiress, I was exaggerating." He unslung a grey duffel from his shoulder and dropped it heavily onto the table, unzipping it to fish out a spare shirt with slightly fewer creases. Squall absently glanced into the bag to tally the supplies. A few clothes, spare guns, plenty of ammo, field medic kit, and all the assorted trivialities of an away bag. Previous mission hadn't been quite the vacation at the beach Irvine had made it out to be, then, or else he always carried an infrared scope and collapsable ladder while suntanning. He also noted with some surprise that the duffel wasn't a SeeD regulation bag, but a storebought one.

Catching his look, Irvine quirked an eyebrow. "So I packed light," he said defensively, misreading Squall's face. "Figured you'd bring everything we'd need plus a rocket pack."

"Darn, forgot that one," Squall replied. His own two duffels, both the standard issue black with Balamb insignia, were back at the cheap hotel he'd booked, with the suspicious stains on the walls and the window you couldn't see out of for the grime. And now that he thought about, it had been a bad idea to leave them alone there with only a flimsy door lock to guard them. If someone stole his second favorite bootknife he would be sorely perturbed. "We'll just have to make do with-"

Captain Renolle returned then with a hefty stack of manilla folders, crammed tight with papers. He shoved them onto the table beside the duffel, very obviously noticed the explosives in the bag and went tight lipped, and left as quickly as he'd come, grumbling under his breath about 'damn lambies'. Bristling at what he knew was a racial slur, Squall made as if to chase after him and demand more attention via gunblade, but Irvine held him back with a grab to his shoulder.

"Let's just take stock of what we've got, Squall. Seriously, you look lousy. Doc shouldn't've cleared you "

"Let's just get off me and got on the case, alright?" Squall growled, shoving Irvine aside forcefully and snatching up the first of the folders. He was tired of people telling him how bad he looked. He wasn't blind. He just didn't want to curl up and lick his wounds while the world moved on without him.

Irvine made a "tch" noise of exasperation, and took the shove without comment. "Fine, I've leave you to handle your own affrais. But you're going to have to clue me in on the mission stats, I was kinda flown in spur of the moment."

"Leaving behind your heiress," Squall supplied.

"Hah, yeah, Tabilta... nice girl..." He rooted through the other folders, idly flicking pages. "So, what do we know? Any leads?"

"They used homemade incendiaries," Squall read, "but who doesn't. Large quantities of fertilizer, should be able to track the supplier through the chemical makeup..." He threw the folder down in disgust. "Except no one bothered to do so, or to keep a sample of the material. Sloppy Galbie police work."

"They probably didn't have the budget to test it," Irvine offered, with a tone in his voice that sounded like... hurt? Oh, right, he'd called them Galbies. Cowboy always got his chaps in a bunch when Squall started insulting his home and countrymen. Well, Galbadia sucked and Galbies sucked, except for Irvine. He would just have to deal with it. "But if we get on location of the blast," Irvine continued, pulling out a technical looking gadget from his bag, "We could maybe get a residue scraping, and test it ourselves."

His mood immensely improved, Squall snatched away the little instrument and fiddled with it, much to Irvine's obvious dismay. "And you said you didn't come prepared. Leave it to you to pack a... what is this thing, anyway?" He didn't recognize it as any of the chemical analyzers he'd worked with before. It was white for one thing; most SeeD equipment was green or black. "Did you get this from Requisitions?"

Irvine pried it out of the gunblader's hands carefully. "It's the newest model, I had to bribe Jonsie in R&D to get ahold of it, and she'll kill me if it's damaged." He packed it carefully away in its padded case, giving Squall a pointed look in case he had thoughts of pulling it out again without permission.

Sulking at being deprived of his toy, even if he didn't know how to work it, Squall went back to the folders. "How did you get your hands on the latest model while you were in Monday Beach, anyway?"

"I got it before I left," Irvine said stiffly, and grabbed some folders for himself. "Says here the bombing was in Rueheights." He frowned. "That's the clubbing district. Why would they bomb some dance clubs?"

"To drown out the godawful music, maybe," Squall retorted, staring into his own papers. Irvine had left on his bodyguard mission about the same time Squall had gone on his last one, and he didn't remember any Chem-Alysis R&D bills coming across his desk before that. The gadget must have been a prototype. Just what had Irvine bribed Jonsie Thallos with? And why had he needed it for a beach holiday?

He shook his head, scoffing at his own mindset. He was so eager for a puzzle to solve, that as soon as this bomb thing got a little dull, he was trying to figure out the secrets behind Irvine's way with the women in the Science department. Not that it wasn't mysterious. And suspicious. If Selphie ever found out...

He glanced at Irvine skeptically, and caught the tail end of a harsh glare, which caught him completely offguard. What had he done to deserve that? But it was gone again, Irvine as smooth and unreadable as ever, the suave bastard. "We should probably talk to some of the club workers," the Galbadian covered, "and see if they were working when it happened. Maybe they saw something worth following up on."

"Uh huh, sure," Squall replied absently, still thrown by the glare. Sure, Irvine always grumped when Squall mocked his nationality, or when Squall teased him about his flirting, or demanded too much of him on a mission, but he rarely got outright hostile. Actually that last one rang a little true. His insistance at being back in the field had pulled the cowboy straight off a previous mission, onto a new one. They'd both left Garden for their respective duties about a month ago. And while Squall didn't have anyone waiting for him... "Sorry about dragging you away from Selphie for so long," he muttered, suddenly feeling guilty.

Irvine paused, giving him that strange look again, the one he'd seen the first time he'd mentioned Selphie. "Yeah," he said finally, his voice oddly flat. "I should probably call her, let her know what's up. She's expecting me home soon."

Squall nodded firmly, granting permission without a second thought. The last thing he wanted was for his issues to interfere with his friends' relationship. "This'll probably be a lowkey mission," he offered. "Lots of downtime. You could call her from the road every few nights. Let her know you're doing alright."

That look was still there. It was making Squall uncomfortable. "You wouldn't mind?" Irvine said finally. "You're usually pretty uptight about mission security."

He shook his head, glowering at the paperwork. The pangs of guilt were running pretty thick now. He was bad at judging moods, but Irvine didn't seem happy about being away from his girlfriend. Squall had probably separated them at a bad time. He didn't want to be responsible for one of their 'spats', as Selphie called them. 'Honking great ballbusting', was the phrase Zell used. "Call whenever you like. Hell, use my phone. Where's that twit captain gone to?" He marched out of the interrogation room and away from that awkward conversation.

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Author's Notes : Culture Shock does not take place in the same universe as any of my other fanfics. Monday Beach is an actual place in the FFVIII game, everything else I made up.

Also, this chapter updated after readers' comments made me realize I was basing Squall on a cosplay friend of mine and not the real character. Apologies, adjustments have been made.


	2. Ch 2 : Ellnoy

"Culture Shock"

by Skandranon

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Chapter 2 : "Ellnoy"

* * *

They'd slaved the day away in the cramped interrogation room, grilling Captain Renolle for any information that wasn't immediately apparent from the paperwork. The Captain was not at all pleased to be dealing with an ornery Commander, but Irvine seemed to know all the right things to say to keep the conversation from dropping too far into hostilities. Squall almost begrudged him for that. But he just reminded himself that the sooner he had his facts straight, the sooner he could get out there and bust heads.

As the sun set and the nightlife woke up, Irvine and Squall suited up to head into the field. Irvine had stashed his duffel in the station and the police had been so kind as to give them a lift to Ruehights, but nothing had been said about picking them up. Squall preferred it that way. They wanted to be unhelpful, let 'em.

This part of Ellnoy was still in the Pontsy district, but a better part of it. The streets didn't have as much trash on them, and most of the architecture was intact. Three and four story buildings in brick smacked up against each other, each narrower than the last, and the upper windows were boarded up or sealed over with plaster. From any open door came the thumping of bass, and the streets were already filling up with people headed to their favorite haunts.

Irvine was strolling casually beside him in his change of shirt, vague smile and calm gait, but Squall couldn't help but notice he was still clutching his cellphone with white knuckles. He'd snuck away back at the station for a bit, and Squall had spotted him in a corner having a quiet but heated argument with the person on the line. Trouble was brewing at home, it seemed.

But none of that showed on Irvine's face, and Squall felt sickly relieved that of all people Doc might've chosen to stick him with, it was the cowboy. He could handle the 'talk to people' stuff Squall admittedly sucked at, and he knew when to shut up and mind his own business. He'd already dropped the subject of Squall's injuries, hadn't he? Something that would've taken days for Zell or Quistis, or weeks for Selphie. Squall would've had to bring in heavy threats to keep his privacy intact. But all it took with the cowboy was one comment, and he quit. Either he respected Squall too much to pry, or he simply didn't care. It was a toss up.

They scoped out the streets around the area before closing in on the bombed site itself. Near the end of the strip a building lay abandoned and half standing, one wall missing entirely. The locals were avoiding it. And beyond, a shallow crater blocked off with yellow warning tape.

Squall's instincts twigged the moment he saw it. The numbers calculated in his head. The amount of explosive needed to cause such a hole, the lack of debris, the fact that an explosion this big hadn't made national news or he would've heard about it. It didn't match up. Someone was lying to him here.

He snapped photos on the rim while Irvine slid below to collect samples. In the fading light his eyes spotted a water pipe hanging loose on one edge of the blast zone, part of it chopped off cleanly. The other half was lying ten feet away, not a scratch on it.

Bomb. Right.

He flecked off a bit of crumbling paint from a surviving wall. It came off in a large chunk, and he absently rolled it up in a stray plastic tumbleweed and put it in his pocket. The more samples the merrier.

Irvine clambered up the slope to him after ten minutes, carrying his evidence tackle box. They acknowledged each other with eye contact, and stood studying the crater silently.

"So," Irvine began, "I definitely got traces of ammonium nitrate, even after all this time-"

"You did?" Squall asked in surprise.

Irvine hesitated, eyeing him. "...Yes," he stated.

Squall waved a hand at the destruction. "Does this look like a fertilizer bombing to you?"

The cowboy tilted his hat up to gaze over the empty landscape in the middle of a bustling city. "...No," he admitted finally, "but I still tell you, I got traces of ammonium nitrate. See for yourself." He clicked open his box and pulled out an electronic litmus stick, and handed it over. Squall flicked through the readings until it said 'ammonium nitrate', and reluctantly passed it back. "There's some charring too, Squall. Maybe not to cause all this, but a bomb went off here, make no mistake."

Irvine replaced the stick, and slid the box neatly into one of his inner pockets without a trace of a bulge. Squall had to admire how well the coat hid its contents. He knew for a fact Irvine was also carrying at least an ammo chain, his lesser field kit, and his shotgun tucked into a back holster. But you couldn't see a thing.

"I'll run the full workup when we get back, and I should be able to call up SeeD and have them trace it to the supplier. In the meantime," Irvine pulled off his surgical gloves and slapped the gunblader on the back, "let's hit the dance floor, and see what we find there."

Squall grumbled at the idea of facing the chaos pouring out of the clubs. It wasn't so much the crowds, those he could just ignore. But he'd heard enough of the local music for his liking just from the echoes of it from distant parts of the city. Doc had told him to rest, not to induce voluntary deafness. But Irvine had latched a hand onto his coatsleeve and was dragging him towards the throng before he could voice any protests.

The Ellnoy club scene wasn't much like the things he'd seen in Deling. He remembered skimpy outfits, tattoos, and the constant smell of cigarettes, from when he'd done undercover work in the seedier bars of Galbadia's capital. There was a lot more clothing here. Or at least, he thought it qualified as clothing, or possibly marionette costumes, and whatever it didn't cover was hidden by hats and body paint. And the smell was a bit... clovier.

He braced himself in the entranceway of the first club, and glanced at the sign overhead. Wait, he knew that word, it was a Galbie ethnic word for... "Bordello? This is a bordello? I thought it was a dance club."

Irvine grin-grimaced and dodged some exiting patrons. "Gogol Bordello is the name of the band, not the club."

"They're hookers?"

Irvine waved a hand in exasperation, giving up on him and ducking inside. The music poured out after him, grinding and angry. And there was the distinct sound of an accordion. Suddenly Squall felt he was on the edge of the gates to hell.

He stood outside and watched the tide of people, gathering up the nerve to face what was surely the underbelly of all things Galbadian. And he already thought the upper crust of this rotten country were pretty godawful, so he didn't want to think what was waiting for him inside. A girl passed him in clown makeup and kneepads. He backed away slowly.

Finding a corner to crouch in away from the throng, Squall weighed his options. Irvine seemed happy to take charge of things. Already he was covering the evidence analysis, keeping the cops from crucifying the gunblader who wreaked havoc in their station, and now he was off interviewing witnesses. Or checking out the girls on the dance floor. Or both. Knowing Irvine, he'd multitask by interviewing only sexy witnesses. While dancing.

If Squall didn't want to put up with the unpleasant parts of the mission, he probably didn't have to. He could let Irvine do it, and Irvine would be glad to oblige. Odds were that the cowboy had received specific instruction from a certain doctor, or a certain headmistress, to take on any responsibilities that their Commander didn't feel up to. To give him time to rest. He scowled. He'd bet even money that if he did nothing, the cowboy would wrap up the entire case by himself and fluff Squall's pillows as well.

Leaving Squall with nothing to do but think. He stood up and stalked towards the entrance. Like hell. He had to take a firm control of the mission before too much of it was pulled out from under him.

The music inside was as much a solid wall of sound as he'd anticipated, and he rocked from the onslaught. All he could hear was string instruments, how did they create so much noise?

Squinting in pain, he searched for the recognizable hat, and soon picked it out. Irvine was leaning on the bar, handing a well endowed lady bartender some money in exchanged for a drink. A large note, he noted. Bribing for info already?

He joined them, and gauged the woman's reaction as she saw him. Wary, but a hint of a smile, like she knew something. Irvine didn't move from his spot, only nodding in his direction and sipping what looked like bourbon. Squall waited to be clued in, but neither seemed interested in talking.

Well fine, he wanted to do things himself anyway. He leaned over the bar. "What do you know about the bombings last month?" he shouted.

The bartender blinked intensely long eyelashes. "What?" she hollered.

"What. Do. You know. About. The Bombings. Last month?"

She pulled out a bottle and shotglass and filled it with a glowing green liquid, dropped in what looked like white marbles, and shoved it towards him.

"No, the BOMBINGS."

She nodded earnestly. "HERE!"

He gritted his teeth. "The BOMBINGS up the STREET!"

Rolling her eyes, she held up her hand in the wait gesture. Some twenty seconds later, the band finished off their song, leaving only cheers and a ringing in his ears. "Okay, say again?"

He clenched the edge of the bar and glared a threat at Irvine beside him, who was turned away to hide a smirk by pretending to watch the band. "Do you know anything about the bombings up the street?"

Her eyelashes fluttered as she blinked, and she pushed the shot further towards him. "Not supposed to talk to people unless they're customers. Drink."

He picked it up and put it in front of Irvine, but she just as quickly snatched it back and put it right back where it had been. "You asked, you drink, pretty boy," she snapped.

Oh come off it. There was only so much he could deal with. He smacked Irvine. "Talk to the woman."

"Oh look, there's a suspicious looking person on the dance floor," Irvine said mildly. "I should probably go talk to them before the music starts up again." And he was off, abandoning his partner with long strides that took him swiftly into the mix of people. Soon he was hidden from view, only his hat bobbing along in the human sea.

What? Damn the horndog's appetite! Squall stared blankly at the bartender, then around the room at the gaggle of dancers, and the band with their thick mustaches and headbands. Then up. To his surprise, he realized the room was three stories high. Cramped and tiny, but stretching all the way up the building. Along the wall were booths with railings, stacked one on the top of each other, several stories of them, and ladders for access. He watched a waitress put food into a dumbwaiter on the ground floor and press a button to send it to the customers above.

Then he looked back to the bartender, who only waited, her arms crossed. He could threaten the facts out of her. He was good at that. Except Quistis firmly encouraged he only apply force as a last resort. And she wasn't exactly withholding anything, she was just being cagey. Irvine had already bribed her, surely she'd be a good little civilian and tell him everything. Just as soon as he obeyed her stipulation.

He peered into the luminescent emerald of his glass. The marbles were fizzing. It looked foreboding. As many times as he'd been drugged or poisoned in his life, he didn't much care for suspicious liquids. But he'd seen other SeeD buy alcohol to ease their investigations before. It was a normal part of the process.

He glanced after Irvine, and scoffed in annoyance. The tall gunner was chatting up three blondes, and his grin had never been wider.

Matching the bartender's gaze, Squall accepted her dare and took a chug off the drink. Minty, he thought.

The music kicked in and kicked him in the head.

His memory got a bit hazy after that. At some point during the night the songs became the most wonderful thing he'd ever heard, and he completely agreed with the singer, he needed to start wearing purple right away. He checked out the upper booths and hung over the railing, scaring the waitresses. He might've even danced. There was definitely a blonde involved. And then Irvine had his arm slung over his shoulders and was dragging him down the street, and he was actually trying to fight him off so he could go back and get another of the green fizzy drinks that made him happy.

They struggled all the way to the ugly little hotel, and upstairs until Irvine tossed him down on the squeaking bed. His attempts to get up again were soundly defeated by gravity, and he lolled and listened to the cowboy moving things around, the music and its violent joy still pumping in his veins.

The familiar head came into view, upside down, brown bangs trailing close to his own cheeks. "Squall, did you have your bags here?" it whispered, dark eyes glinting blue from the light of the single lamp in the cramped room.

"Grnmn," he muttered.

"Somebody stole your equipment, Squall."

"Drwhe?"

The long lips smiled gently, but the eyes didn't. "Sleep it off, buddy. I'll figure out what to do with you in the morning." He moved out of view, and Squall accepted his fate and let the world slide away from him. A low murmur followed him into sleep.

"Why I agreed to this madness I'll never know."

* * *

Morning was the most evil invention of a spiteful Hyne. Morning in Ellnoy was infinitely worse. Every part of the city thrummed and vibrated at just the right frequency to shake his eyes loose from his skull, and drag his spine over fiery coals. And as bad as his dry, grimy mouth tasted, the polluted air filtering in the cracks in the window tasted fouler. He soothed his aches away with fantasies of traveling back in time and killing Mr. Ellnoy before he could found this bloody nightmarish place.

As his scattered memories returned, his instincts pinged and adrenaline sent him surging up, scanning the room. Empty. No duffel bags, no Irvine. "My fucking bootknife!" he yelped, furious.

Then he had to go lay down in the bathroom for awhile. Sweet, mercifully cool tiles.

He walked to the police station, once his head had cleared a little. He couldn't grab a cab. The money he'd stuffed in his jackets before heading out last night wasn't there this morning; he vaguely remembered buying drinks for whatever her name was. He couldn't remember Irvine talking him out of enjoying himself, though. Louse probably took advantage of the opportunity to catch some nookie, instead of doing his job like he was supposed to.

It was a long walk on cracked sidewalks, some of them at angles where weeds and roots had displaced them. He wasn't mugged once, even when he cut through the filthy backalley, which confused him. City as rough as this, you would've thought so, but no. Maybe the local criminals slept in. He did see more children, playing hopscotch with an empty cigarette packet as their throwing stone. He shook his head, appalled.

As he passed a small diner, he was hit with the most incredible smell he'd ever known, and his stomach reached up into his brain and grabbed the 'Food!' lever and yanked hard. It also reminded him that he hadn't filled it since the afternoon before. He found himself crammed up against the open door, gazing longingly at a deep frier like it was his long absent mistress.

He didn't even like fried food. And greasy food was nasty. Except his hangover firmly disagreed. Right now, the slowly bobbing bits of battered cockatrice were the most delicious, enticing-

A man blocked his view, short and aproned. The cook, no doubt. Squall backed up, but the man looked pleased rather than annoyed. "Poh fella, y'look 'alf starv'd, getcha innear 'n' getsum cookin'."

Squall blinked. It took him a moment to decipher the garble. He braced himself against the siren call of sizzling and turned away with a wave. "No thanks, I don't have any money."

The man laughed like a bark, his teeth yellow but intact. "Ai sayz y'get innear 'n' getsum home cookin', 'fore y'shrink 'tilya disspear. Won' 'ave no man looks tha' wayat my foodz don' getno plate fulluvit." And soon after he'd strong armed Squall into a stool and handed him so much fried trice that the grease had soaked through both the napkin and the disposable plate.

A greasier but happier Squall walked into the police station half an hour later, vainly trying to brush out one of the stains on his shirt. He knew he might eventually regret his breakfast, but right now he was content. Who knew there was one nice Galbie in the world? Even if he couldn't talk worth hell. Squall would have to remember the place and go pay off his bill once he'd gotten some cash.

He received only hostile sideways looks from the cops at the station, no doubt still emotionally bruised from his rough treatment of them the day before. He found Irvine in a back room, frowning into his cellphone. But the gunner gave a quick goodbye and hung up when he saw the gunblader, and strolled over to greet him cheerfully. "Slept in, did you?"

Squall snorted. "You just ran off this morning, without telling me where you were headed."

Irvine played wounded. "You were passed out. And I left a note."

"Where?"

"On the bed. Guess you just didn't see it. Too busy looking for painkiller, maybe?"

Squall snarled, and slammed the door shut to give them privacy. "That fucking bartender drugged me."

The look on Irvine's face was half amusement, half something else. "No she didn't, Squall," he said patiently.

"She fucking did. I took one mouthful and I can't remember anything else." He knew he shouldn't have trusted the eyelashes.

The cowboy chuckled, and made himself comfortable sitting on a desk's edge while he lit up a cigarette. "Squall," he mumbled around it, "you just can't handle absinthe, that's all."

"Ab-what?" he asked suspiciously. Cowboy was making stuff up now.

"Absinthe. The green fairy. It's fairly popular in this area. You were knocking down moth absinthe to be exact, I saw five of them, and you might've had more." He quirked his eyebrows suggestively. "The fairy's a powerful drink, hits you different than most stuff. I stick to bourbon, it's safer."

Squall scowled. He didn't need to recognize the words to get the gist of it. He'd been given very potent liquor, not kept his head on, and made a complete ass of himself. And considering how highly Galbadians prized drinking skill, Irvine probably thought him a pansy now. Was he sucking on that cancer stick like a straw to hide a condescending sneer? Did Irvine even think like that? It was hard to tell with him. "And where were you during all this?"

"Interviewing witnesses," Irvine replied pointedly, between tugged breaths, eyes ducked under his hat. "They didn't see anything. A few said they remember what felt like an earthquake, and the power went down for half an hour. Police report says the demolished building was empty, and a few were injured next door, but none of the bouncers, staff, or regulars knew anyone who'd been involved." He puffed a few times thoughtfully. "And then they really clammed up when they figured out I was working with the local cops. No love lost there."

"What do you mean? Seaki said there might be moles in the police, but-"

"No, it's not tied into any rebel plots. Just bad policing in this district." His eyes darkened with distaste. "At least one person called them the most corrupt in the city. Before they shut up, mind."

"And you just let me drink during all this? Why didn't you stop me?"

"You looked like you could use the relaxation." Irvine eyed his shirt where it covered bandages.

Squall stalked over to Irvine's duffel bag to hide his aggravation, and started ruffling through. "I'm fine. And you can forget what Doc told you, you don't need to nursemaid me. I don't need to 'relax'." He shook a jamming beacon at the cowboy as a warning. "You try that again, I'll drug you and handcuff you in a car trunk, and finish the mission myself."

Chuckling, Irvine put out his smoke. "As tempting as that sounds, I'll keep you out of trouble better by sticking where I can see you."

Squall scoffed, but glanced sideways at his taller companion. "Moth... absinthe?"

"Yeah. Because the sugars look like mothballs." Irvine was grin and teeth again. He always did that when someone else was the joke. But it faded into puzzlement, and he sniffed. "...You smell like trice."

"Yeah, I had some for breakfast."

The wounded look was real now. "You had Ellnoy fried trice and you didn't bring me back any?"

"You can go with me later, I still need to pay the tab." He'd spotted some pies in the shop as well, and now they were tempting him. Maybe for lunch. "You'll have to pay, I guess. My bags were missing this morning." He squinted, trying to rack his memory. "You... said they were stolen?"

"Remember that, do ya?" Irvine peered up from under his hatbrim, eyes glinting.

"Yeah, barely. Mother fucker." He knew he should've been more careful with them. I mean, this was Ellnoy for crying out loud, he couldn't just leave his valuables lying around and think they'd be fine. If he found out who'd taken them, though, he'd enact a gleeful revenge. He'd had some good shit in there. At least his gunblade was safe in his hip holster.

"At least we can use my equipment," Irvine consoled. "Speaking of which, chemical analysis came back."

Right, work. He could pine for lost stuff later. "And?"

"Traced the fertilizer to a specific producer in a town called Scraggle Brook. Way up the river. Company's called SB Farm Supplies." Irvine tossed over the hastily printed report. The logo was a happy sun and flowers. Squall was unimpressed. "They don't typically do much business down here, and I managed to call up Deling for their tax files, and wouldn't you know it, no sales to Ellnoy big enough for a bomb in the last year."

Irvine had called up the tax office and already gotten a reply? "Just how early did you get up?"

Irvine shrugged.

He must've charmed some secretary, to get it that fast. Hyne knows this country wasn't known for its efficient government offices. "We got anything else to go on?"

The cowboy waved a hand at a foreboding stack of unfriendly manilla folders. "Bits and pieces. The official report is shoddy, we won't get much from it. Plenty of data, just none of it thorough, cohesive, or reliable."

Squall nodded firmly in agreement. They couldn't trust these cops to do their job. After all, some of them were probably rebels. And he wasn't too keen on trying to wade through the massive files for a shred of a clue. He tossed the idea immediately; they were on their own.

Irvine continued, "We could stick around and do our own look at the structural damage, chase interviews some more. Or, we could take this one solid lead and go check out the fertilizer supplier ourselves." He smirked cheekily, and rearranged himself to give off a glimpse of his back holster in a move that Squall knew was completely intentional. "I figure, local cops could only call up the place, if they even checked the chemical, and would have to decide whether the cost of sending up a cop was prohibitive. We, on the other hand, can go right on up to the source, and get some answers. Our way."

His hint for emphasis was unnecessary; Squall knew exactly what he was talking about. Everyone knew what Balamb Garden's way of "getting answers" was. And he loved every minute of it. Potential violence on the horizon, his mood perked up like an eager puppy. Damn it paid to be leader of the most powerful mercenary force in the world. "Fine, let's grab an air shuttle and head right out. Fetch your equipment. But first we're grabbing a lunch to go. Gimme your wallet."

The cab ride back to the tiny restaurant was much faster than walking, and Squall marched in with wallet in hand, a bemused Irvine trailing after him, curiosity plain on his face. It would've been more sensible for him to stay behind at the station to call the shuttle and make the arrangements, but he'd wanted to see what it was that had caught his partner attention. Squall had to admit he was something of a picky eater, and greasy food wasn't usually anywhere near his plate. The novelty must've been amusing the gunner. And then he'd probably tell Selphie and then everyone back home would know, but that was the price of being SeeD : no privacy.

He wasn't expecting all the blood everywhere in the shop.

Weapons out, they followed the trail of gore to the back of the store, where the injured cook was slumped behind the counter, being clutched by a younger female that looked related, probably his daughter. She wasn't happy to see them.

Irvine stepped in and started talking in soothing tones to her, and Squall felt himself dropping into combat instincts. Check the exits, no threats, no sign of attackers. Wounds to the cook probably fatal, gun inflicted. No other sign of damage to the restaurant. Trail of blood suggested cook away from register at time, probably not a robbery. Cook still alive for the moment, but unconscious. Gut wounds, nasty, he didn't have long left. Still no threats around. No other customers, nothing overturned, so no signs of panicked flight.

He came back to ground in time to hear "-damned cops."

"What cops?"

The girl shot a hateful look, eyes red pain and years of fettered rage. "_Your_ damned cops, kitten. I know you, I watch the news. Get the hell outa my shop."

Squall was thrown by the word 'kitten'. He'd never, ever heard it said with that much venom. She sounded like, if he was a kitten, she would be trying to drown him in the nearest sink. He didn't follow the insult though. He already had his cell out though, concentrating on what needed to be done. "I'm calling the hospital, your father needs immediate medical care-"

With a scream she smacked the phone out of his hand. Irvine had her pulled back before she could do anymore, but her voice was all screech and the clash of trains. "You don't call the hospital on the cops, brightburnt fucker! My father's dead, this is my shop now, _get out of my shop!"_

Squall was set to argue, but now it was him that Irvine was pushing, out the door. "You can't make them get help they don't want, Squall," he muttered, and bodily forced them out onto the sidewalk. Behind them, the girl stood in front of her dying father's limp body, defending him from the outside world.

Squall tried to shove past him to get back inside. "This could be involved with the mission, I was talking to him earlier-"

"No, Squall."

"This could be my fault, someone thought I was asking him questions and they tried to silence him-"

"Squall, no." Irvine's voice grated harshly. "It's just one of those things."

"The rebels could be-"

"Squall!"

Squall was broken out of it by the sheer hostility in his partner's voice. He was surprised at its intensity. Irvine was nearly as furious as the girl. He sounded bitter too, and enraged. You would think it was his father that was laying there. His fists were clenched sharply in the gunblader's arms, which he only now realized really hurt.

"Did... you know the guy?" He wasn't sure what spurred him to ask that. It was just so strange to see Irvine's composure so broken.

Irvine ground his teeth into his lip for a moment, and shook his head, the fire dimming. "No, never met him or the girl. I'm just... pissed off that the cops who were supposed to be helping us did something like this." His voice returned to almost normal. "I don't think it's connected to the case, Squall. The guy wouldn't have known anything. And like the girl said, they owed protection money." He spat literally spat on the ground. "Won't be any police report on this murder, you can be sure of that."

Squall had missed that part of the conversation in his combat haze, but he retrieved it from his memory. Yes, she had mentioned protection money. Damn.

They jerked together for a moment, Squall pushing to turn in the direction of the station, and Irvine holding him firm just as quickly, anticipating his motion. They met glares.

"Can't cure all the world, Squall."

Hyne he wanted to. He wanted to stalk into that station and rip the place asunder until he found whose gun it was, and then whoever the gun was attached to... "I didn't even get to pay for my breakfast," he mumbled.

Irvine's expression flashed a sad pity for a second, but he hid it well. Good for him. Squall wasn't in the mood to be pitied.

He gazed around him blankly. Across the street were a cluster of children examining a frog curiously. It had been cooked in the sun, and was a charred corpse now.

"I hate this fucking country," Squall grumbled. "And this fucking city. Let's get the hell out of here."

* * *

Author's Notes : Researching bombs always makes me nervous that the gov'ment's going to start watching me.


End file.
